


bad boys bad boys (whatcha gonna dooo) ♫

by happyrobins



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Sibling Bonding, jason and damian being jason and damian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1571570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happyrobins/pseuds/happyrobins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a Jason and Damian as Batman and Robin AU!! featuring a bunch of graffiti, a rival dynamic duo, and Cat Jason (a cat named Jason).</p>
            </blockquote>





	bad boys bad boys (whatcha gonna dooo) ♫

Jason has been out of prison less than a day—released by his replacement, and he still can’t believe the kid had the balls to do that—when he gets the message from Talia. It’s been a while since she contacted him, but he still knows how to decode her encryptions.

The address in the message leads him to a worn brick building not far from Crime Alley. Not much to look at. Beside a door there’s a hidden scanner pad that accepts his handprint, and once he’s inside he groans happily.

It’s a safehouse, Fully furnished, fully stocked, with all the necessities that have become luxuries to him lately and all the luxuries he’s only been able to  _dream_  about, and he knows it’s all for him. It is a thousand times more livable than the base he’d set up in a derelict warehouse last night and even the bases he’d been living in before he was thrown in jail.

“Thank you, Talia,” he says to the empty room as he stretches out on the deliciously comfortable sofa, propping up his combat booted-feet.

He is just about to close his eyes and really relax for the first time in a long,  _long_  time when he finds out, rather rudely, that he isn’t alone. 

 

—

 

The first time he meets Bruce and Talia’s son, the brat drops down from the ceiling and tries to chop off his arm with a sword.

 

—

 

Holding a damp towel to his forehead to staunch the blood, he calls up Talia on the computer—it’s a pretty sweet setup, but he can swoon over it later—to make her tell him what the deal is. She does, and he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Yeah, he figured Talia would want something in exchange for this place, but he was thinking along the lines of information. Him keeping an eye out in Gotham for her. Not babysitting duty.

The murderous brat makes a muffled noise of anger, still tied and gagged on the sofa. Jason is glad his knots are holding up. He keeps an eye on the kid, though—he knows better than to underestimate Talia’s son.

“Quiet, kiddo. Your mom and I are talking.” 

“He’s at a very important age,” Talia says. “I had hoped for his father to teach him and help him realize his potential, but that… is no longer possible.” That pause, the conflicted expression that flickers across her face, are enough to tell Jason she’s dealing with the same complicated, poisonous wasps’ nest of emotions over the man’s death as he is. 

“So, what? I was the next best choice?” Jason feels like laughing at how ridiculous that it. So he does, bitterly.

There’s no humour in Talia’s eyes. She is coolly serious. “You were Batman’s pupil. His partner.”

“He’s had lots of pupils. Why don’t you dump your kid off with one of them?”

“Because I trust you, Jason. I know you. You can do this.”

“But I don’t want to,” he says, verging on exasperation. He’s tired. He needs a few hours of sleep and a shower before he even tries to deal with a conversation like this. His forehead is still bleeding and he’s worried it’ll need stitches and he’s just in a bad mood with Talia’s kid at the centre of it. “Sorry, but I’m afraid I’m not in the market for a sidekick.”

She is quiet for a moment, contemplating him. Her next words are calm and calculated, like a move on a chessboard.

“Perhaps you should reconsider. Everyone knows that Batman needs a Robin.”

And there it is.

It isn’t as though Jason hasn’t considered it before. He has, at different times in different ways. Back when he was wearing pixie boots he wanted to be exactly like Bruce. The past few years he’s been obsessed with being more.

Now he isn’t sure what he wants. He’d told—taunted—Bruce that he would make a better Batman, and what finer way to prove it then by taking the man’s place and being the Batman that Gotham needs? But at the same time he wonders whether that dark, heavy cape will feel too tight around his neck—constricting, like a noose. Maybe he’s better off doing what he’s been doing as the Red Hood, and use Batman’s absence to work unfettered. Or maybe he’s missing a golden opportunity. He doesn’t know yet.

He knows exactly what Talia wants, though. A Batman and Robin she can trust, a dynamic duo aligned with her.

Not that any amount of swanky safehouses or weapons or much-needed cash would ever turn Jason into someone’s puppet, but that has never been Talia’s intention. She has done a lot for him; he owes her enough to at least listen if she asks for a favour.

That’s the only reason he’s been listening to her now, instead of hanging up five minutes ago.

“Well?” she asks expectantly. The kid’s watching him, too. Waiting for an answer.

“I’ll think about it,” is all Jason promises. He sighs and rubs at an eye with the heel of his hand in exhaustion. “But if he tries to kill me again, I swear I’m going to shove him through the window and lock him out.” See how the brat likes sleeping outside for a night.

"Do you hear that, Damian? Behave yourself,” Talia orders firmly. “You know well enough to respect your teachers."

 

—

 

Damian gets out of his bindings after a few more minutes of struggling and storms into the kitchen while Jason’s busy checking out the contents of the refrigerator. He already checked out the security system, and it’s impressive. Batcave-quality. And now he finds his favourite ice cream in the freezer. This place is perfect.

Jason takes the opportunity to make the sandwich he’s been craving every single day of his short stint in prison. Doubledecker, crammed with pickles and smothered in mustard. Damian glares at him from by the coffeemaker, grabbing an apple out of the fruit bowl and chomping on it almost threateningly. 

Jason’s never seen someone make eating fruit seem like a means of intimidation. Damian has got a decent scowl on him; he must practice a lot. But with his round face and tiny nose he looks sorta like an angry pug. Maybe when he’s older it’ll actually be somewhat frightening—

At that moment it strikes Jason just how much this kid looks like Bruce. He tries to forget it by imagining Damian’s face freezing in that ridiculous chubby pug-scowl forever.

“I’ve made my decision,” says Jason nonchalantly, searching the cupboards for a first-aid kit.

“Have you.” Damian sounds bored.

"Yeah." Jason uses the reflection of the microwave door to help him smooth a band-aid over the cut on his forehead, then turns to the kid challengingly. “I’ll let you be my Robin. But you have to wear the original costume."

Damian scoffs. “Don’t be absurd.”

 ”I’m serious.”

“I have no desire to be your sidekick,” says Damian scathingly. “I’m not going to jump around in bright colours like some fool. I can easily take over for my father on my own, without your interference.”

Briefly, Jason considers goading him into doing just that. A ten-year-old baby Batman swinging around Gotham and growling at criminals would be entertaining to watch. He wonders how Gordon would react.

“Then why are you still here?” he asks.

“Mother told me to stay,” Damian says, unhappy but resigned. It’s good to know he listens to someone. “She said you’re supposed to be my new tutor.”

“Tutor you in what? How to fight?”

Damian seems to find that funny. He smirks. “No. I’ve learned how to fight. I’ve mastered forms you’ve never even heard of. Perhaps I’ll even teach you a thing or two if you ask nicely, Todd.”

“Then what?”

Damian thinks for a moment. “Gotham,” he says simply.

Jason raises an eyebrow. “She wants me to teach you about Gotham?” 

“That’s what I said. One day it’s going to be my city. I need to know everything.”

“Fine.” Jason stands, grabbing his leather jacket off the back of a chair and shrugging it on. “Let’s go.”

“What?”

“It’s time for your first lesson, so go get changed into something that’ll help you blend in. With people, I mean,” he adds, because the kid is definitely the type to interpret ‘blend in’ as meaning camouflage gear and face paint, which will make him stick out even worse than the black-and-white getup he’s wearing now. “We’re taking a field trip.”

“It’s still  _daylight_ ,” Damian complains, looking confused. Jason doesn’t care how well-trained the kid is, he isn’t prepared for Gotham at night.

Crossing his arms impatiently, Jason makes a show of checking his watch. He doesn’t own a watch, he realizes. He hasn’t owned much of anything since it all got confiscated in prison and his old safehouses were compromised by the Bat’s minions. Damian gets the message though, stomping out of the room.

"And no swords allowed,” he calls after Damian, receiving only an annoyed “ _tt_ ” in response.

 

—

 

It’s an afternoon of firsts for Damian.

His first time riding public transit, and boy what a brave new world it must be for him. Cramped bodies, stale air, weird stains on the seats. The look of disgust when someone sneezes near his head is priceless. Jason pretends to forget their stop just to make him soak up the experience a little while longer.

His first time trying a chili dog, apparently. He gripes about the grease and below-standard cleanliness of the street vendor’s cooking equipment, but he eats the whole thing.

And, overall, his first time being just another body taking up space on the sidewalk instead of a special, precocious little prince. A man hurrying along bumps into Damian without stopping and the boy whirls around snarling, looking prepared to challenge him to a duel to the death. Jason has to grab Damian by the arm and drag him along to stop him from mutilating the poor guy. Damian may have left his sword behind but Jason knows the kid’s got at least one sharp object hidden on his person.

Damian follows Jason down the sidewalks, trailing along like a grumbling little thundercloud. This kind of tedious, uneventful legwork obviously isn’t what he had in mind when he spoke of learning about Gotham. He said he wanted to see everything… and that is exactly what Jason’s going to show him. Starting with downtown during rush hour.

Then maybe later they’ll take a trip to the Bowery ‘round dusk, or the Narrows. See if that scares the kid into giving up on Jason and Gotham and going back home to his mom. But as much as Jason hopes he will, he probably won’t. He is stubborn—as expected of the son of both Talia and Bruce—and definitely won’t be quitting easily. He’s in this for the long haul. Joy.

Jason finds himself stopping in front of Wayne Tower. Tilting his head up, he squints at the glare from the late-afternoon sun against the highest windows, and frowns. He wonders if Alfred is up there, or Dick or Drake or any of the so-called family, making excuses and trying to cover for Bruce’s death. Jason would rather deal with those corporate bigwigs than the kid that’s been foisted on him. Can’t be much different in principle than dealing with crime bosses.

"Well?" Damian asks impatiently. His tone reminds Jason strongly of Talia. It’s cute. Sort of. "Aren’t we going inside?"

"Yeah, that’ll go over well,” Jason mutters sardonically. Maybe a little too quietly, because Damian is still watching him expectantly, one imperious eyebrow raised. "No,” he says firmly, rolling his eyes. “No, we’re not going in." Here on the front steps is as close to inside as he’ll willingly go.

"Why not? I’m his son. His heir. It’s my company by birthright."

"Yeah, you’re totally right. No big deal, just the boss’s adopted son back from the dead and his biological son nobody knew existed, strolling in to say hi." Jason snorts. "Do you know how many questions that’s gonna raise?"

"They don’t have the right to question me. I’m their employer."

He says it with such a straight face that Jason can only stare in incredulity. He doesn’t know how this kid is real.

"If that’s what you’ve got your heart set on," says Jason, jerking his chin up at the tower, "you shouldn’t be hanging out with me. Can’t help you there. Go make nice with Alfred, or Grayson. Let them adopt you. Maybe they’ll be able to set you up with a fancy office near the top floor.”

Jason jams his hands into his pockets and stalks down the sidewalk, leaving Damian standing in the shadow of the tower and looking up at it with something like longing. Just before he turns the corner he glances back and sees the boy hurrying towards him.

"I want to see what it looks like from the top,” Damian says once he has caught up. And that is something that Jason  _can_  help with.

 

—

 

It’s a nice view. Always has been.

Up this high they can see the rivers and ocean on all sides, making Gotham seem almost small. When Jason was younger it looked like a playground of rooftops and colourful lights to him, even though he knew if he looked too far past the gaps in the buildings he’d see the lurking dark spaces, the places where trouble hid around every dimly-lit corner. But those were fun, too. That was where he worked with Batman most of the time, helping people. 

It’s just so easy to get mesmerized by this view, though. It’s best on a clear night like this. But the way rain or snow looks like falling over the city at night are always worth braving the slippery rooftops and cold wind. He also remembers being up here a few times in the daylight, and it just never had the same impact without the billions of dazzling lights shining back at him. He still dreams about the sight. It isn’t the same as the one he’s looking at right now. Not exactly.

A lot can happen in a few years. That big earthquake did plenty of damage, levelling buildings that were later rebuilt, changing the landscape of the city just so. It’s different. But then again, Jason’s different too. He supposes nothing can stand still forever. Gotham wasn’t going to stay frozen in time and wait for its lost Robin to come back. Neither did Bruce.

Damian looks down at the city spread below them and smiles for the first time since Jason has met him. It’s a bit of a scary sight. But that might just be from the way the lights below are casting shadows on his face. Might.

The kid is drinking it all in. Committing it to memory for the first time as Jason tries to relearn it all. Fearless even at this height, Damian makes a circuit of the top of the tower to see it all, every angle. Jason half-expects him to pitch a flag and claim it for his own. 

While Damian is busy, Jason takes out the thick black permanent marker he’s been tending to keep in his jacket pocket lately and scrawls JASON WAS HERE on a patch of cement wall.

It’s vindicating. For a moment. And then, like every other time, it just seems stupid. He regrets writing it. He regrets not writing it bigger.

 

—

 

Damian’s schedule is exhausting just to be around. Like a good little soldier he wakes up bright and early at… Jason isn’t sure of the time exactly, since he’s always still asleep, but when he manages to drag himself out of bed Damian is already training or studying and making Jason feel like a lazy piece of shit in comparison.

Jason knows the kid does sleep—it’s a bit of a relief to learn that he is actually human—because whenever he wakes up sweaty and shaking from a nightmare and paces the safehouse to calm himself down he’ll check all the rooms out of paranoia and see the kid in bed, sleeping rigid on his back like a vampire.

Just seeing Damian train, he has to admit the kid is good. Better than any of them were as Robin. But still just a kid, even if he doesn’t act like it. And as much as Damian asks— _demands_ —Jason refuses to take him along on patrol. Damian only gets to see Gotham in daylight during their little field trips and it’s pissing him off, Jason can tell. He grows crabbier by the day.

Jason considers offering to spar with him, as a half-hearted attempt at bonding that he knows isn’t going to happen, but he can’t quite trust the brat not to play dirty and whip out a knife if he starts losing. Damian fights the practice dummies with a restlessness, a barely-restrained ferocity that Jason thinks he should probably keep an eye on.

Maybe underneath all that anger and condescension Damian really is just a kid, desperate to prove himself. A feeling Jason is all too familiar with. Or maybe underneath  _that_  he’s just spoiled rotten to the core. 

Jason never agreed to play therapist for Talia’s kid. He has enough problems of his own, and most of them are about Gotham.

"Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone, squirt,” says Jason, snapping shut his helmet and patting his hidden pockets as a final equipment check. “Remember, the stove is off-limits. Brush your teeth and be in bed by nine."

Damian scowls at Jason over the top of his laptop screen. Then, surprisingly, he blinks and arranges his expression into something more… composed. “The news just reported bomb threats received for several city landmarks. Some of them on your territory. It can be taken care of more quickly if I go with you.” It’s the closest he’s come to asking for something instead of demanding it. But Jason can see straight through his act.

"Maybe I’ll take you along…” Jason lies, “ _if_  you say the magic word.”

Damian frowns at him. Jason thinks he’s just being stubborn and proud, and then he realizes that Damian might not actually know what he means.

And… fuck, he thinks as he slams the door shut behind him. He should not have to teach the kid basic manners. Or basic colloquialisms.

Jason isn’t oblivious enough to believe that Damian is just sitting at home all night. The boy is smart, he’s capable of tampering with the security system and sneaking out. But there’s no evidence and even if there was it’s not like Jason can stay there all night and enforce a curfew. He’s got better things to do, and simply having Damian around throws a huge wrench in most of his plans.

He could just… not come back after patrol. He thinks about that sometimes. He could leave Damian to his own devices until Talia pulls the plug on this idea—it wouldn’t take long. But he doesn’t have the time or means to get a decent new place yet. And this one has hot water. So he does come back, night after night.

Jason often thinks about how fantastic this safehouse would be if he wasn’t roommates with a ten-year-old and sighs.

 

—

 

Jason is sitting up on a fire escape, legs dangling down between the bars of the railing. It’s been a busy night. His knuckles are bruised and his jeans are splattered with blood and he only has a handful of bullets left. He watches the sun rise just to stall dealing with the brat who complains and criticizes him every other sentence. 

Earlier, when he was busting up a pimp’s kneecaps—really taking his time with it—a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye made him glance up. For split second he swears he saw a figure jumping the gap between rooftops. He searched the area a bit and found nothing, but whoever it was looked small. Small like the kid.

Jason worries if whether taking Damian up on the tower was a bad idea. The kid got himself a taste of Gotham’s night air, and it’s an addictive thing. Jason knows. He remembers the early days, back when he wasn’t allowed to smoke anymore but usually didn’t feel the need because every night he got  _this_  and it was so much better.

He missed it during those years he was traveling, the rush. The taste of smoke and car exhaust and something sharp that he can’t name—it seeps into the air, up from the streets and sidewalks—is thick on the roof of his mouth, and it is exactly what he was craving so badly while he was gone.

Talia made a huge mistake sending her son here.

 

—

 

Times are tough since Batman disappeared. The power balance in the city that was precarious to begin with is now completely fucked.

So far nobody’s stepped up to take the Bat’s place, Jason included. Not that he doesn’t think about it. Constantly. He can’t help but notice how fast everything’s going to hell. How soon the rich scumbags and crime bosses started making riskier moves in the Bat’s absence, crawling out of their hiding-holes and pushing bigger deals and getting lazy about hiding their tracks. Like they weren’t all that scared of him to begin with.

It’s a bitter kind of vindication for Jason. An ’ _I told you so_ ’ to a dead man.

Jason always figured Dick would take up the cowl right away. Maybe he would’ve, if he wasn’t bedridden. Last time Jason was in the cave, when his replacement invited him in to hear Bruce’s last rites, the golden boy was in the medical bay, unconscious from surgery with half a dozen tubes sticking out of him. Some case backfired on him, badly, and he ended up on the wrong end of a whole lotta guns. It is going to be a while until he can even stand on his own, but knowing him he’ll bounce back. That’s all he does, bounce back. Like he’s more superball than human.

It isn’t like there’s no vigilante presence in Gotham. Huntress is still going strong. Oracle’s team pops in regularly, doing their usual thing. There is word circulating about a woman in red that kicks ass, carries a big staff, and doesn’t shy away from blood.

People are starting to notice who’s missing, though. The worst are trying to cash in on it. Most are just asking questions, wondering what happened to Batman.

Batman  _and_  Robin, because Jason’s replacement is notably absent too. Jason heard from Damian who heard from Talia who heard from Ra’s that Tim Drake left Gotham to travel the wider world. 

Jason doesn’t understand why he would leave Gotham without a Batman, especially since Dick has a good few months before he’ll be in any condition to patrol, but he has a suspicion or two… There are a couple more usual players missing from the city’s vigilante game. Jason is just going to have to wait and see if that means what he thinks it means.

 

—

 

Talia hasn’t been responding to Jason’s calls since she ditched her kid with him. Jason knows exactly what trick she’s trying to pull—if he has to wait to tell her he’s quitting on this idea, he’ll be forced to spend more time with the kid and eventually warm up to him, right?

Wrong. 

Though she could be legitimately busy. There were times when Jason was traveling and training when he couldn’t get in contact with her for weeks. 

But either way, it just makes the situation a lot more difficult when Jason can’t even call up Talia and tell her Damian has been missing for almost an entire day. 

A nasty encounter the previous night with an ambitious new gang spreading their influence around the east end left Jason with a deep, bloody gash down his forearm. He passed out soon after he got home, barely having enough energy to do first aid and cram some food in his mouth before he collapsed in bed. He tore his lousy stitches while he was sleeping and woke up at one in the afternoon with crusted blood on his sheets. The kid was nowhere to be found.

Talia could probably get a dozen ninja out scouting the city in under an hour. Jason could… file a missing persons report. Search the city himself, like he’s been doing for the past few hours with an end result of zero leads. He could put up some posters. He doesn’t have a photo of the kid but he could use a picture of a grouchy pit bull, it’ll be close enough.

Sitting at a sticky diner table with half a cup of lukewarm but very much needed coffee in front of him, Jason contemplates his next move. He toys with the cell phone in his hands. He could call Alfred. Get the old man to fire up the Bat-Computer and do a few surveillance scans on the city.

He doesn’t want to call Alfred. Alfred is manipulative and sneaky and he’ll make Jason repay the favour by coming over and doing some chores like— like changing the oil in the Rolls-Royce and then taste-testing some new cake recipe and then next thing Jason’ll know he’s being coerced into staying in his old bedroom again.

On a whim, he dials a number he has been keeping in the back of his head and listens to it ring. It only does twice.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Jason wasn’t actually expecting her to pick up. He’s a bit taken aback, at a loss for what to say. “It’s me, Barbara.”

“Why are you calling this number?”

“See, I’ve got a bit of a problem on my hands, and… I know we’re not on the best of terms, but I’d rather ask you for a favour than—”

She hangs up on him with a click. He looks at his phone and tells himself he shouldn’t be offended. But he is. She couldn’t even stand him long enough to hear him out?

Then his phone rings. He answers it.

“Hey.”

“Jason, that wasn’t a secure line! That was my home phone, the one I use for civilian activities. Ordinary things, like making dentist appointments and ordering takeout. It’s a  _decoy_. You shouldn’t be calling it.”

"Yeah, well, ‘fraid I’m not privy to your special frequencies, almighty Oracle. I have to make do with what’s listed in the phone book." Silence on her end. He worries she is about to hang up on him again. "I’m sorry, okay? I wasn’t trying to compromise your identity, I’m just in a really bad situation right now and I was wondering if you have any information that can help me. It’s about a missing kid."

"I’m listening."

"His name’s Damian, he’s—"

"Talia and Bruce’s son, I know," Barbara says briskly. He figured she would. "He’s been staying with you in Gotham since you got out of prison."

Jason blinks in surprise. That, she’s  _not_  supposed to know. “Living up to your reputation,” he says flatly. “Fantastic. At least tell me you haven’t learned where I’m staying right now. It’s the nicest place I’ve had in years and it’d be great if I didn’t have to abandon it.”

"Your hiding place, or places, are still unknown in my database. To be honest, Jason, we have more important things to deal with right now." He can hear the faint clacking of her typing busily. "Typically it’s what you do when you crawl out of hiding that we’re concerned about. Now let’s see what we can do about your missing boy. With all the trouble he caused last time he was loose in the city, the sooner we find him the better."

"Yes. Great." He rubs at his tired, dry eyes with the heel of his hand. "Thanks."

"Nice fake identity, by the way, Pietro Jaycox. You really had me guessing when that showed up on the caller ID."

"Just one of many," says Jason, smiling fondly. "That one’s my rockstar name."

"You know, Jason… If you were ever waiting for the time to, I don’t know, repent and make amends? Now would be it. I’m trusting you not to exploit this information when I tell you that right now we’re completely run ragged, willing to accept any help we can get. They probably won’t even make you beg for forgiveness."

Jason laughs hoarsely. “Ain’t gonna happen, Babsy.”

"I thought as much," she says, still typing away, still all business. "Does the east end of Tricorner  mean anything to you? By those blocks of warehouses Penguin owns and rents out to all our favourite criminals? I have some footage here from about… five in the morning, and it looks like Damian. You don’t see a lot of kids carrying swords, not even in Gotham."

“I know exactly where you’re talking about.” He’d been haunting that stretch of docks for hours the past few nights—he got word that the new gang he’s trying to nip in the bud is expecting a shipment of smuggled military-grade weapons this week and he was scouring for clues about where it would go down, with no luck. He isn’t even one hundred percent clear on the  _when_. 

His chances of taking down two birds with one stone like he’d hoped—the gang and the weapons smugglers they’re dealing with—have only been getting slimmer and slimmer. And now the brat has gotten into his case notes and decided to take up the investigation and  _fuck_ , he really should’ve known better than to scribble his notes onto fast food napkins and leave them on the kitchen table.

"I’m heading over there right now." Jason slaps some change down on the diner table and pulls on his jacket. "Can you— can you  _please_  not tell anyone about this? I can handle it myself—I really don’t want to deal with any of your birds or bats today.”

"I’ll give you three hours before I send in one of my operatives. Get it wrapped up and get out before then."

"That’s all the time I need."

"Stay safe out there, Jason," she says before she hangs up, says like she  _means_  it. Jason hasn’t heard anything like that in a long time—it hits too close to a raw spot.

 

—

 

Jason knew from the beginning that three hours is an overconfident goal, and he is  _really_  cutting it close—his last half hour is ticking away when he finally finds the brat locked up in one of many metal cargo crates sitting by the docks, and they still have to fight their way out of there.

“Looks like someone got in over their head,” Jason says, looking smugly down at Damian with crossed arms. Damian just scowls and shoves past him, out of his makeshift prison. He doesn’t look hurt, just a bit roughed up and a lot pissed off. The ropes he’d been tied up with are lying on the ground, he must’ve gotten free of them in seconds. Getting out of a big steel box by himself was a different matter. “You can thank me anytime now.”

“This was all part of my plan,” says Damian defensively. His face is flushed red with anger and embarrassment and he takes his foul mood out on the nearest gang member, kicking him hard enough in the chest to send him staggering off the dock to splash in the water.

“Great plan. Getting caught and tied up and waiting for them to dispose of you—probably after some interrogation, some torture, or worse, because they wouldn’t take you alive unless they’ve got something really nasty planned, believe me. What a smart plan. Why didn’t I think of that?” Jason shoves a nearby barrel down and sends it rolling, knocking down two of the smugglers, cartoon-style, as they’re running back to their boat. He chuckles.  _Classic_. “But I gotta admit… if you want to be Robin, you have the boy hostage part down.”

“The plan was to lower their guard by playing captive and taking them down when the time was right. Your interference may have ruined everything. So, thank you for that.”

Jason wipes his bloody knuckles on his jeans and surveys their work. They’re the only two left standing, the transaction was averted in time, and the smuggled weapons are waiting on the moored boat for them to deal with. That went easier than he expected. And faster. 

“I guess we do work well together.”

“I work well by myself,” Damian says snidely. “You’re just tagging along.”

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure I just took down ‘bout twice the goons you did.” Jason spots one last thug cowering behind some wooden boxes, but all it takes is for him to point his gun  and the guy drops his own weapon and flees. Smart. “We can argue about that later, though. Right now there’s a boat full of illegal weapons just begging to get blown up. You in?”

It takes a moment, but a slow smile spreads across Damian’s face.

 

—

 

Jason sighs as he picks up the cape and cowl. “This is going to end badly,” he mutters, letting the dark fabric unfurl in front of him.

"Are you chickening out, Todd?" asks Damian. He has picked up a few new phrases from TV and from Jason. Sometimes he almost sounds like a normal kid. “If you’re worried the job is too much for you to handle, perhaps instead you could be the Robin to  _my_  Batman. I do have superior training, remember. And the title is mine by birthright.”

And then he goes and says something like  _that_.

“Nice try, kid,” says Jason. “You’re the junior partner here. Deal with it. Just count yourself lucky you get to wear pants.”

Not just pants, but also sleeves and a hood and boots that are combat instead of pixie. Kid might act like he’s reluctant to take on the role of Robin, but that doesn’t stop him from  _preening_  whenever he thinks Jason isn’t looking.

Jason can’t even look at the cowl in his hands without reluctance. Part of him won’t stop thinking that this is all a huge mistake. But Gotham’s waiting for a Batman, and this is his chance to prove he’ll be a better one. To prove that he’s not crazy, he’s not unbalanced, he’s not simply angry and lashing out—he’s  _right_. He’s been right all along.

There’s nothing to lose, he reasons. The only thing at stake is Bruce’s reputation. And that doesn’t bother him.

 

—

 

The signal is shining in the sky, but they don’t answer it. That’s not how Jason works. And he is certain the cops aren’t going to want to be friendly with  _his_  kind of Batman.

He and the kid take to the streets and rooftops. It’s been a long time since Jason hasn’t patrolled alone. A long time. Not that Damian is great company or anything. 

Jason still isn’t sure how he feels calling Damian ‘ _Robin’_.

The kid can keep up with him, can deliver a mean beatdown, but he is definitely a different breed of bird than Dick or Jason or the ones that came after. Brutal, efficient, no flashy flips or quips or even a  _smile_. At least Jason got him to leave the sword behind.

The biggest problem with Damian is getting him to follow a single direct order. Tonight is just a field test, any kinks in this partnership can get ironed out later. He still hasn’t ruled out breaking it off and shipping Damian back to his mom—he can work just as well on his own—but he has to admit having the brat around has its uses. A Robin by his side gives him that much more authenticity, makes the whole thing easier to believe.

Crime really has escalated, grown and  _thrived_  without the looming presence of the Bat casting a long dark shadow. It’s everywhere—Jason and Damian find three violent muggings, an attempted arson involving fire, and a gang skirmish-turned-shootout, all in half an hour.

This is a field test for Jason, too. The cape and cowl change everything. It takes some getting used to. And the biggest thing he learns over the course of the night is how to use the power that wearing— _becoming_ —this symbol gives him. The power to make the bad guys  _afraid_  like he’s never been able to before. He doesn’t even need to point a gun to scare them.

But, like he has known all along—for those who  _aren’t_  scared, the gun makes all the difference.

 

—

 

The signal disappears about an hour into their patrol. Jason figures Gordon got tired of waiting and gave up.

Later he learns that probably wasn’t the case.

Turns out they aren’t the only Dynamic Duo making their debut that night.

 

—

The inevitable confrontation happens on a rooftop in Old Gotham, after Jason and Damian chased a scream two blocks and found they’d been beaten to the punch.

Looking back on it afterwards, Jason thinks maybe the encounter would have gone a whole lot better if Damian just kept his mouth shut.

“What… What am I looking at?” The blonde girl in a redesign of Jason’s old uniform turns to her silent, black-clad partner. They’re Batman and Robin. A different Batman and Robin.

The other Batman’s face is entirely hidden by a full mask. That only makes Jason  _more_ certain of who she is. Cassandra Cain. He’s heard all about her from Talia, seen pictures and surveillance videos… though only a scarce few of each because she’s better at being invisible than even Bruce. Her uniform looks different than Jason has seen. More hidden pockets, more armour, longer cape. Makes her look taller.

Jason smirks at her. “Well, this is embarrassing. Showing up to the party in the same outfit.”

For a long moment she just looks at him, cocking her head ever so slightly. The full mask gives her an eeriness, an unpredictability. She’s completely unreadable. Jason can’t even guess at what she’s thinking. 

 “Jason Todd,” she says quietly.

Her Robin’s eyes go wide. “Wha— That’s  _him_?”

“Guilty as charged.” Jason folds his fingers into the shape of a gun and cheekily pretends to fire it at the blonde girl.

“Oh, you bet you’re guilty. Of  _how many_  murders has it been, now?”

“I don’t keep count.”

“And who’s this kid?” She jerks a thumb at Damian. “I can’t believe you’re dragging around a little  _kid_  to help you kill people. That’s— That’s sick. He can’t be older than nine—”

“I’m ten,” Damian snaps, like that makes it better. “I’m no child. And I’m the one who should be asking questions here. To start, why are you wearing  _my_  uniform, impostor?”

Damian doesn’t know who she is. Jason does—he’s pretty sure she’s Stephanie Brown. Once Spoiler, once Robin, once dead. Now alive and kicking and, apparently, back in the red, green, and yellow.

“Excuse me?” She frowns down at Damian. “If anyone’s the impostor here, it’s you. Ti— Robin asked me to take over for him while he’s out of Gotham. ”

“So he did leave town,” says Jason, raising a curious eyebrow underneath his cowl. That’s what he thought. “Why?”

“None of your business.”

Damian crosses his arms angrily, refusing to be pushed out of the conversation. “It doesn’t—”

“Shut it, Damian,” says Jason.

“Robin,” he corrects with a glare. He wasn’t so adamant about being Robin before, but everything has changed now that somebody else wants it.

“Just shut it,  _Robin_. Adults are talking.”

Damian sneers at him and turns back to Stephanie. “I was saying, it doesn’t  _matter_ what Drake said. He wasn’t the rightful Robin. I bested him in combat. I defeated him. And besides, as my father’s true heir, I have more of a right—”

She grimaces. “Oh, great. You’re  _him_. You’re that demon kid everyone’s been complaining about. Of course.” 

“The son of Batman,” Damian declares, unhappy at being interrupted. “And as such, far worthier of any role I choose than an untrained nobody like you.”

“ _Untrained nobody_? I’ve trained with some of the best there are—including your father—as Spoiler  _and_  Robin.”  At that, Damian goes rigid in surprise, jaw tensing and hands curling into fists and a dozen conflicting expressions flashing across his face. Taking his reaction as victory, Stephanie smirks triumphantly. “Yeah, that’s right. This isn’t the first time I’ve worn this uniform.”

“Liar,” Damian accuses. His voice wavers almost imperceptibly with something like _hurt_ , like jealousy. Jason thinks he’s the only one that hears it. “I’ve never heard of you.”

“I’m not lying, you little—”

“Stephanie, right?” Jason asks her, butting in.

“Robin.”

An exasperated sigh. “Right,  _Robin_. Whatever.” He gestures around them lazily. “Where’d your Batman go?”

Stephanie looks around frantically but her partner is long gone. She disappeared in the middle of their argument—probably following her tingling bat-sense to a nearby crime—without a sound and without any of them noticing. 

“Shit.  _Shit_.” Fumbling for her grapple gun, Stephanie runs to the edge of the roof and leaps off. “This isn’t over!” she yells over her shoulder as she swings away. Jason has to grab Damian’s wrist to stop him from hitting her in the back with a batarang. That’s just a dirty move.

 

—

 

It took a lot of discipline for Jason to get down to one cigarette a day. Weeks spent feeling hollow with craving, all that built-up stress manifesting itself into a new bad habit of chewing his fingernails so short they hurt.

And now that he is dealing with the demon brat, and Bruce being dead, and the fact that all his hard work isn’t so much as making a dent on Gotham lately, that one cigarette means a lot to him.

So he is understandably rankled when his daily cigarette break is interrupted by a familiar shiny black car rolling up and stopping at the mouth of the alleyway. He chose this spot so he wouldn’t be bothered. By  _anyone_.

Dick gets out of the backseat slowly, with difficulty, and hobbles over to Jason on crutches—it’s a mystery how he got Alfred to let him out of bed already, he looks half-dead. 

Now would be Jason’s time to make a getaway—he could  _walk_  away without getting caught because Dick’s moving about as fast as a snail uphill—if not for the fact that Dick would never stage a confrontation like this without backup.

Jason glances over his shoulder even though he doesn’t need to look to know who just dropped down from the rooftop—the former Batgirl and current Bat, period. Cassandra Cain, wearing civilian clothes but looking just as ready for a fight as she would in leather and kevlar. He didn’t even hear her until she landed, and probably only then because she wanted him to. She’s good.

No way he is going to run away with his tail between his legs, but he can’t fight the two of them in front of Alfred. He can feel the man’s stern gaze through the tinted car window, the same look he would always give when Jason was younger and let loose a swear or tracked mud in on the clean floors.

"Jason," Dick says sternly. "We need to—"

Jason holds up a hand to silence him. Eyes closed, he takes a long drag of the cigarette. He savours it, breathing out slowly. And then he takes another. All the while making Dick wait—and that feels even more satisfying than the much-needed nicotine.

Only when the cigarette’s finished and Jason stubs it under his heel does he give the two of them any speck of attention. “Yeah? You need something?”

"Jason, what are you doing?" Dick asks, exasperated. There’s a smart-aleck remark on the tip of Jason’s tongue but Dick doesn’t give him a chance to make it. Rude. "I mean, dressing up as Batman? Making Talia’s son your Robin? I don’t know what game you’re playing, but it has to stop."

“Not playing any games, big wing. I’m just doing what the boss taught us.”

“I must have fallen asleep during the lesson about shooting perps and letting them bleed out if they don’t talk, because I sure don’t remember that one.”

“Desperate times. They almost always make the smart decision, anyway.”

"Batman doesn’t kill," Cassandra says. “Never.” It’s only the second time Jason’s heard her speak and she’s already parroting Bruce. Big surprise.

"Well, maybe he should sometimes," retorts Jason, and it sounds petty even to his own ears but he doesn’t give a crap. "And I am, so I guess he does now. One of him, anyway. I don’t see what the big deal is," he tells Cass, shrugging. "I’m cool with sharing the action—it’s a big city. More than big enough for two of us."

She gives him a  _look_ , narrowed eyes and a threatening tilt to her mouth. He knew it wasn’t gonna fly.

"I won’t let you… kill with that symbol." She jabs him sharply in the chest, where the bat would be if he was in uniform. "I’ll be watching. Next time you try… Beware."

"I’m shaking,” he deadpans. There is no doubt she can put a huge dent in his operations if she puts her mind to it, but he refuses to show that he’s worried.

She smiles, small and smug, like she  _knows_.

"Sure was nice seeing you two,” says Jason, trying to create his opening to leave. They’ve said everything they wanted, made all their threats. He isn’t eager to stick around. "Well… not you, Dick. You look like crap." He starts to walk away, past Cassandra. She doesn’t try to stop him. "Wish I could stay and chat longer but I need to get back to babysitting B’s kid before he gets loose and decides to set Arkham on fire.”

 

—

 

She keeps her promise. 

Later that week Jason is raising his gun to aim at the head of a drug-peddling lowlife whose cheap, toxin-laced goods have killed at least three customers so far when he’s tackled out of nowhere by the Cain girl.

When he gets back on his feet and reaches for his gun she throws him down again, effortlessly. And again. She’s not trying to hurt him, just knock him down until he gives up and stays down.

He has to toss a handful of smoke pellets just to make an escape, and curses her all the way home. He’ll need to be a hell of a lot more careful to stay under her radar or else this is just going to keep happening.

Like he really needs his job to be harder than it already is.

 

—

 

Jason told Damian to stay outside as backup while he went in for an unscheduled meeting with a very rotten, very corrupt CEO to…  _express his displeasure_  over the plans to demolish an entire block in the Bowery—including a park and a food bank—to build a cheap factory.

Of course, once he strolls out of the office building, wiping his blood-splattered gauntlets on his cape, Damian is nowhere to be seen. He still doesn’t obey orders well. Or at all.

Jason finds him on the second floor of the parking garage down the street, led by the sound of pained yelling (and by the tracker he secretly implanted in one of his partner’s boots because this isn’t the first time something like this has happened).

Isn’t the first time he’s seen Damian try to kill someone, either. But it’s the first time he realizes how wrong he has been to let a kid that misguided run loose in Gotham.

He has to drag Damian away from the bloody, whimpering mess of a person smeared on the cement. “What do you think you’re doing?”

"Stopping a criminal, like we’re supposed to do," Damian says, twisting his way free from the grip Jason has on his cape. He is infuriatingly calm in the face of Jason’s anger. "He tried to steal a car. The owner came back while he was still attempting to hotwire it, so he pushed him down and ran. I stopped him."

"You were going to  _kill_  him!” Jason yells. Damian doesn’t even flinch. There’s blood—but not his own—speckled on his cheek. “He didn’t deserve that. He’s just a  _kid_.”

“He looks to be in his mid to late teens. He’s no child,” Damian says as Jason kneels down to check on the beaten car thief. “He injured that old man when he pushed him. I thought we were supposed to take down criminals that hurt others.”

The boy is in bad shape, but not as bad as Jason thought. His left leg is definitely broken, and so is his nose. Most of the blood is from that, and from the nasty batarang slice down his arm. If Jason had gotten here a few seconds later Damian would have finished the job with one more strike.

"Like murderers,” says Jason through gritted teeth, straightening up to tower over his partner. “Killers, rapists, scumbags that abuse innocent people and profit off their suffering. Not unarmed teenagers boosting cars and running away. No one dies unless I say so, or unless they’re going to kill you or someone else and there’s no other option. Got it?" He jabs a finger hard at Damian’s chest, right over the Robin logo.

Damian crosses his arms, glaring right back up at Jason.

"How hurt was the old man?” asks Jason. “Where is he?"

Damian shrugs, jerking his head up at the level above them. Jason lets out an annoyed huff and makes a mental note for when they get home to give the kid a lesson about checking on victims. By the time they make it up to that floor the car and its owner are gone, so he must have been fine.

It’s a small feeling, just a shift in the air, an instinctive prickling on the back of his neck, but all at once he  _knows_  she is there, nearby. Both of them. The other dynamic duo.

They’ve been tailing him on and off, just randomly enough to keep him guessing and jumping at shadows. Never failing to show up all judgmental when he is splattered with someone else’s blood, or one squeeze of the trigger away from it.

Jason isn’t sticking around to make small talk. Not this time. He grabs Damian by the hood—it’s been really useful for dragging him around—and hurries them outside. “Let’s get out of here.”

“You don’t want to bring the thief to the authorities?” Damian hardly sounds disappointed.

“I don’t think that’s our problem anymore.”

 

—

 

Damian approaches Jason the next day during breakfast—at  _lunchtime_ , technically, but Jason only woke up ten minutes earlier. It was a long night.

“I have a question,” Damian states in a tone that makes it clear he’ll be getting an answer whether Jason likes it or not. It’s as polite as he gets.

Jason glances up from the newspaper spread out in front of him. “Yeah?”

“After what happened last night, I want to know… How do you decide who deserves to be killed?”

He asks it so matter-of-factly, like he is actually curious. Like it is a perfectly normal question. All Jason can do is stare in wordless disbelief, lost for an answer. He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times.

“I…”

“Simply so there’s no further confusion. It’s annoying having to deal with you throwing a fit like that. I’d prefer to avoid it. I know you gave me a few examples then, but they were hardly exhaustive. I need more criteria.”

Jason takes a long swig of coffee and wishes it was something stronger. It is too early in the morning ( _afternoon_ ) for this conversation. “Criteria. Right. Fine, how about… If I say we’re killing someone, it’s okay. If I don’t then it’s not. Easy peasy. You need me to write that down for you?”

“If I’m expected to follow any orders from you,” Damian says haughtily, crossing his arms. “I deserve to know how you’re making your decisions. Otherwise I will be making my own.”

Letting out a harsh, exasperated sigh, Jason picks up his mug again, drains it in one gulp, and sets it down with a loud  _clunk_. “I don’t know how to make it clearer than I did last night, but  _fine_. We’re talking killers, rapists, drug-dealing scum that don’t play by my rules…”

“I’ve seen you kill for less than that.”

_Mistakes_ , Jason thinks. Green-tinged moments of regret. But he doesn’t regret it enough to be able to say that.

“People who got in my way,” is what he says. “They made their choices. And it’s not like any of their hands were squeaky-clean, either.” He never agreed to teach Damian any kind of moral code—he doesn’t even follow one he can explain. It’s not set in stone. That’s the whole point. That’s what makes him better than Bruce, better and capable of doing whatever  _needs_  to be done, no matter how much that definition changes. “But the ones at the top of my list are the monsters. And not just the ones in Arkham. There’s no shortage of them in Gotham, and none of them look or work the same way, but they all have the same things in common. They live their lives thinking they can charge through the city with the right to hurt and kill and destroy as many lives as they want. And they do it all without a shred of remorse.“

“But—” Damian begins, brow furrowed in confusion. “Isn’t that…”

“Isn’t that  _what_?”

Damian hesitates. He has the look of someone thinking fast, trying to change their answer halfway through. “Isn’t that like  _you_?”

It really is too early to talk about this. Right after Jason has woken up he always feels… not just grouchy, but  _raw_ , stripped bare. And Damian’s little remark stings in a way he is not ready to deal with yet, not until after another cup of coffee and a long session with a punching bag.

“No. It’s not. Not even close,” Jason says in a dull voice, still too tired to even snap. He goes back to his newspaper. “No matter what you might think, you don’t know  _anything_  about me. Now go away, Damian. I’m done talking to you about this.”

 

—

 

She finds him on another of his smoking breaks. It’s becoming an annoyingly regular thing— despite how often Jason moves to a new spot, she always finds him.

His gun stays in its holster today. He has shot at her before, plenty of times, and it’s just a waste of bullets. He can never even graze her. It’s frustrating.

She’s like Bruce, he notices, in that she prefers to stay in the shadows. She stands over in the shade in dark clothing watching impatiently as he simultaneously finishes his cigarette and nurses his wrenched, nearly dislocated shoulder—an injury he got just a minute ago when she first dropped down the fire escape and he thought he could take her down by surprise. Not surprisingly, it didn’t work out.

“What do you want this time, Cain?” he asks, earning himself a scowl. She doesn’t like him calling her that. That’s why he keeps doing it.

"That young man, in the parking…" She pauses, her forehead wrinkling as she searches for the word.

"Parking garage.” Jason rolls his shoulder tentatively and winces—it still fucking  _hurts_. She really did a number on him. “That why you’re here? To make me answer for what I did? Figured you would, eventually.”

He also knew that when she did, he would find himself taking the fall for Damian. He isn’t sure why, he doesn’t owe the brat anything, but… He’s the adult, right? He is supposed to be the responsible one. Supposed to take responsibility.

Even if the other party won’t believe his lie for a second.

Cassandra is frowning at him. And, for some reason he’ll never understand, decides to play along. “Yes. Why did you hurt him so much? It’s not…” She pauses again. Thinks for a moment. “It’s not… usual.”

"No, it’s pretty usual. I’ve hurt lots of people worse than that, Cassie."

She doesn’t like him calling her that, either. It’s plain on her face.

"Not like him."

"I guess I flew off the handle, a bit. Took it too far. Shit happens." He shrugs. "Is that all you wanted?"

For a long moment she just  _looks_  at him searchingly, without blinking. He wonders what she is seeing.

"Be more careful," she says finally, turning to go. "And remember…" She points at her own eyes and then at him, classic ’ _I’ll be watching you_ ’ gesture, before she slips around the corner and disappears.

 

—

 

The voice is a problem. 

Jason knows it is one of Batman’s biggest weapons, more useful than half the tools stashed in the utility belt. Important. He practices but can’t get it right. He can do deep, he can do raspy, but when he tries to put it together into something that might scare a perp he sounds like he’s suffering from laryngitis. Hardly intimidating. He has always preferred taunts over growls, anyway.

The other Batman isn’t having this problem, she hardly says a word. Silence  _works_  for her, better than threats or demands. Her Robin is loud and does all the talking for both of them.

Damian scoffs when he hears Jason complaining. “It isn’t that difficult.” The kid clears his voice quietly. “ _Jason, you are a disappointment. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I had simply left you in the gutter to rot._ ”

The imitation is so uncanny it makes Jason want to shudder, but he won’t give the brat the satisfaction. He reaches out and tousles Damian’s hair much more roughly than necessary.

"Cold, squirt. That was cold. You’re hurting my feelings.’

 

—

 

The first time Jason hears Damian use that word, he grabs the brat by the neck and slams him against the nearest wall.

They just finished saving a woman who was nearly murdered by her angry ex-pimp. She was pretty shaken up by the whole thing and Jason knew better than to call an ambulance for her because then the cops would get involved and those are probably the last people she wants to deal with, so he and Damian dropped her off at Leslie’s.

And no sooner they were out the door Damian decided to open his mouth and make a snide  _remark_  about her line of work.

Damian adores his mother so much that he seems to believe any woman who isn’t  _her_ isn’t deserving of his respect. It’s something Jason has been working on. But this— _this_  attitude is something entirely different. Jason doesn’t know where Damian picked it up, but it isn’t going to stand.

"What do you think you’re doing?" Damian snarls at him, kicking and twisting. A small steel-toed boot hits Jason in the ribs and it  _hurts_  but he doesn’t let go.

"Never use that word again,” he says through gritted teeth. "Where did you even learn that? Because I know it wasn’t from your mother."

"Some of my teachers used to say it. And the assassins that worked for my grandfather. Why does it matter? It’s just a word. Now let me go this instant or I’ll make you regret ever touching me."

Jason eases up and lets the boy drop to his feet. “Why does it matter? Because it’s degrading and hurtful to a lot of the people we’re trying to protect. And because if I hear you saying it again you’re grounded from being Robin for a month.”

"That’s ridic—"

"And that’s not all,” Jason interrupts. He wracks his brain, trying to think of what punishment he would have hated the most as a kid. Which one would’ve taught him the biggest lesson. “You’re going to write an  _essay_. Yeah. An essay on why that language is a problem, and why you shouldn’t be using it. Five pages, single-spaced. With research. Due at the end of the week.”

Damian is looking at him like he’s insane. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Nope. You’re not allowed out at night until it’s handed in. Count yourself lucky she didn’t hear you, or you’d be writing out an apology too.”

It’s a strange role reversal being the senior partner, the one who hands out punishment, after all those years of being the junior. Jason thinks he likes it.

 

—

 

Damian turns in the paper a whole day early and Jason gives him a B-minus. Acceptable. 

The tight-lipped expression of suppressed  _outrage_  on the Damian’s face when he sees his less-than-perfect grade is a memory that will never fail to make Jason smile.

 

—

 

Talia calls every now and then to check up on them, swap intel, and arrange the latest funds transfer. But her first priority is always about Damian, how he is doing, whether he has been behaving. To Jason it feels like the world’s strangest parent-teacher conference.

“He’s… learning,” Jason tells her. It is about the nicest thing he can say, and not entirely untrue. He’s not good at this. “I guess. I don’t know. What has he said to you?” Damian talks to Talia more often than Jason does, and he is sure the kid spends half those conversations complaining about him.

"That you are a sorry excuse for a teacher, and an even sorrier Batman and partner."

Jason waves a hand carelessly. “Oh. Well. There you go.”

Talia smiles at him. “He’s said much worse about his tutors in the past. I think he likes you.”

"Right. I’m definitely feeling liked."

"Or respects you, at least. That’s quite an achievement, Jason."

"I’ll keep than in mind the next time he tries to stab me over the last pancake."

 

—

 

Jason never has any idea what to tell Talia during those video meetings. He just has a long list of things he knows he shouldn’t say, like:

“ _Hey, Talia, I can’t stop thinking that all of this was a terrible fucking idea and at least twice a day I consider drugging your kid and sticking him on the soonest flight heading overseas.”_  

“ _Sometimes your son reminds me of Bruce so much that I can’t look him in the eye.”_

“ _Just yesterday Damian asked me what his father was like and I couldn’t answer, I actually had to leave the room.”_

Damian is only becoming more persistent with that question, intent on needling an answer out of Jason.

“It’s not fair that you got to train with him,” Damian whines one afternoon before sparring practice. “And so did that…” He stops himself. “That… intolerable woman who thinks she is a better Robin than me.”

An improvement. He definitely  _is_  learning.

“He is  _my_  father. If anyone deserved to be his student, it’s  _me_. You should be teaching me everything he taught you. Every lesson.”

“I’ve tried,” Jason says flatly. “I tried to teach you that throw last week, remember?” Damian turns his nose up at every move Jason tries to show him, claiming that he knows them all.

“That maneuver was juvenile and insulting to my skill level. Teach me something better,” Damian demands, jabbing the bo staff in his hands against the floor with a loud  _thunk_. He’s like a spoiled five-year-old stamping his foot to get his way.

Jason doesn’t rise up to the bait. He sighs, rolls his eyes. Pulls a bench a bit closer and takes a seat. Rests his chin on his fist to think.

“Well, this one time…” Jason begins. His voice falters at the sudden memory but he covers by clearing his throat. “This one time right after I started being Robin I found out your pops was keeping a secret from me. I was mad. Pissed. Apparently he thought he was trying to protect me. And he told me that some things are harder than fighting, like learning how to turn revenge into justice. And that one of the easiest ways to lose is by carrying uncontrolled anger into a fight.” It’s a useful lesson, Jason realizes, but certainly not in the way Bruce intended. He’s learned how to temper revenge into  _his_ kind of justice, how to make anger work for him in a brawl without trying to dampen it. “I can’t remember it exactly but it was something like that.”

There. He gave his pearl of Bat-wisdom for the day. He raises his eyes to meet Damian’s, checking to see if the kid is content.

“That’s stupid,” Damian says. But then he keeps quiet and watches Jason expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

 

—

 

Damian does a lot of reading—stacks of thick books on history and science and law that weigh nearly has much as he does. And when he doesn’t have his face hidden in a book he’s doing research on the computer.

"Am I supposed to send you to school or something?" Jason asks one day, rifling through Damian’s notes and earning himself a scowl. "Should I play schoolteacher and give you a pop quiz?"

“Tt. I have a master’s level knowledge of dozens of subjects. Being forced to attend some plebeian school would be an insult to my intelligence.”

"What are you studying so hard, anyway?" Jason picks up a textbook and squints at the cover, then cracks it open and squints harder. Holy shit.

"That is just some light reading. I’m reviewing a few topics to be better prepared for foiling the Scarecrow when he chooses to crawl out of hiding." Damian doesn’t pause in scribbling notes and complicated symbols even as he’s talking. "I’m more focused on the subject of my ancestors’ involvement in the creation of this city that rightfully belongs to me—the history of my family legacy, which my father should be teaching me. Or you, if only you were smart enough to remember any of it. But I can’t find enough material on the subject."

“I need to stop by the library on Wednesday,” Jason says dully. Damian’s city, his ass. He can’t even muster up the energy to roll his eyes at Damian anymore. “Either you’ll be able to find what you’re looking for there, or you aren’t looking hard enough.”

Jason still drags Damian out on their field trips on days that they aren’t completely wiped after a rougher night on patrol. It is good for the kid to see the light of the sun now and then, and realize that Gotham isn’t just night and wind and rooftops. They start out running errands that inevitably turn into investigations on their latest case because Jason just spotted a perp that fled the night before, or one of them sees something while walking that makes all the clues fall into place. Some things are easier to solve in the light of day.

Whenever they stop at the library Damian prefers to wait outside, ever since an older librarian lady saw him standing awkwardly by the front counter waiting for Jason and led him over to the children’s section to help him pick out a few books for himself. Jason is just relieved the kid didn’t throw a fit and get them both banned for life.

This time Damian follows him through the doors. Jason offers to take him to the section he wants, but Damian refuses with a  _tt_  and stomps off into the rows of shelves… in the wrong direction.

Knowing better than to say anything, Jason shrugs heads off to do what he came here for. He renews a couple books, flips through his favourite car magazines, and then ends up wandering in the science section checking out some chemistry texts for a refresher—he doesn’t want that brat upstaging him with the Scarecrow case and lording it over him.

He’s sitting on the floor reading when Damian finds him. The kid has got a big stack of old dusty history books in his arms that he is gonna have a  _lot_  of fun carrying back to the safehouse because Jason won’t be helping.

“Find everything you need?”

Damian wrinkles his nose and gives a half-nod. “Overlooking their disgusting condition, I suppose these will be adequate, for now.”

‘ _For now_ ' means it’s about three days before Damian’s bugging Jason to take him back to the library. He gets more books on history, on Gotham architecture and politics and maps and even genealogy, complains about the stains in the pages but reads them faster than seems possible, trying to figure out how much of the city already belongs to him and how much he’ll have to conquer himself.

One afternoon Jason flips through a book Damian left on the kitchen table and winces because it’s dry as  _fuck_  and he doesn’t understand how Damian can read it.

The next time they’re at the library he picks up the first Harry Potter book—he figures kids like that sorta thing, right?—and sneaks it into Damian’s usual pile of books once they’re home.

He’s doing weapon maintenance when Damian slams the book down hard on the worktable. If Jason’s hands weren’t so steady he would’ve lost half an hour of work on one of his guns.

Damian is glowering at him. “What is  _this_?”

“I think that’s what they call a book, Damian,” says Jason, picking up a tool and going back to his work. “Sure looks like one.”

“I do not have time for fictional drivel.”

“I think you should give it a chance. It’ll make you a better crimefighter.”

“That’s absurd. How could it  _possibly_ —”

“Maybe read it and find out.”

He really starts ignoring Damian after that, and the kid gets the hint and stomps off. He notices that Damian takes the book with him.

He also notices the light spilling under Damian’s door long after they get back from patrol, when Jason is finally on his way to bed himself. Damian manages to get his hands on the next three books and reads them within a week.

 

—

 

When Jason sees Bruce Wayne on television, he can’t breathe. His throat closes up and his head spins and his vision blurs acid green and, for one terrifying moment that feels longer than it actually is, he thinks he is going to  _lose_   _it_. 

But that isn’t Bruce’s voice promising exorbitant amounts of money to Gotham charities. On second glance that isn’t his smile—it’s a fake smile but it’s not  _Bruce’s_ fake smile—and those aren’t his eyes.

And Jason can breathe again, can think again. He sinks down into the nearest chair and stares. Frowns as he realizes exactly what’s going on, who that is on the screen wearing Bruce Wayne’s face and expensive suit.

Jason tries to avoid every television appearance of Tommy Elliot as Bruce. Whatever soap opera cliché is happening down at Wayne Enterprises isn’t his problem. Damian watches it all with a kind of sneering fascination, refusing to turn it off or change the channel.

“Are people truly believing this act? Is that what my father is like?”

“I guess it’s a decent little charade for the reporters,” Jason admits. “But anyone who actually knows him won’t be fooled for more than a second.”

“I only saw his face once, on a computer screen. Mother had me pick him out from a crowd before I met him.”

“Guessing he was wearing the cowl whenever you saw him after that?” Jason asks without waiting for an answer. “Yeah, of course he was.” He was probably wearing that thing when he helped  _conceive_  Damian, too.

Damian watches the TV intently as what looks like his father laughs and jokes with the reporters. It’s… worrying, to say the least. This is the closest he has been to being face-to-face with Bruce, without masks in the way.

“You know that’s not what he’s like, right?” says Jason. “Even if it actually was your dad up there talking, that’s not what he’s like. It’s all an act. That’s why it’s so easy to imitate.”

Eyes fixed on the screen, Damian doesn’t say anything. Then he nods and looks over at Jason. “Perhaps we should kill this impostor,” he says conversationally. “To show him I won’t stand for him sullying my father’s name and image with this shallow impersonation.”

“The two of us killing celebrity billionaire Bruce Wayne…” Jason pretends to mull it over. It’s not the first time he’s considered killing Bruce, and not the first time he’s considered killing Hush, but he knows they can’t actually go through with it, not without every other vigilante in the city crashing down on them and locking them up for good. Damian won’t do well in juvie. “If we do, we should do it in broad daylight, in front of all the cameras. Make a few headlines.”

Damian gives a quiet, amused grunt and turns off the television, finally. Jason was about ready to shoot the screen just to make all that fake,  _wrong_  Brucie chuckling stop.

“That was a joke, by the way,” Jason says. ”I was kidding.”

“I am aware.”

“Just making sure.”

“I was kidding as well. About killing him.”

“Really.”

“Yes. Obviously I would not want to kill him  _right away_. He deserves worse than a quick death.”

 

—

 

Jason hears a familiar voice drifting down the hallway and with a jolt he realizes it is Bruce’s. Not the fake Brucie-drawl of Hush playing from one of his televised press conferences, but really  _Bruce_ , the real Bruce. Jason rushes out of the kitchen so fast that he kicks over a full bag of groceries he was about to put away and forgets to close the fridge door.

It isn’t coming from a TV, and it isn’t coming from the man himself… Jason finds Damian sitting in front of the computer as a message he’d hoped to never hear again plays on the screen.

“… _I thought I could put the pieces back together. I thought I could do for you what could never be done for me—_ “

Jason slams his hand against the keyboard to pause it and yanks Damian’s chair around so the brat can see exactly how pissed off he is right now.

And is he ever pissed. There are things in that message that he doesn’t want Damian knowing, that he doesn’t want  _anyone_  knowing. He regrets Bruce ever finding out, ever trusting Bruce, because look how well that went. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jason demands in a voice so cold and harsh that it even scares himself, a little. “That file was  _private_. Why are you snooping around the computer?”

Dick sent it that file attached to a message that managed to slip through all his computer security systems and firewalls, probably with Barbara’s help. He said in his e-mail that he wanted Jason to watch it a second time, to really  _listen_  to it. Jason never did watch it again, but he couldn’t— didn’t delete it, either. A stupid mistake, while living with a kid like Damian.

“I was not  _snooping_ —”

“Sure as hell looks like you were. You shouldn’t have watched that, you had  _no right_ —”

Damian isn’t cowed—he stands up and glares right back at Jason. “You’re only angry because you think I was prying into your secret dark past.” He rolls his eyes. “I don’t care how difficult or cruel you think your childhood was, Todd. You don’t even  _know_ difficult.” Jason’s hands are twitching to throttle him at those mocking words. “The only thing I care about is the fact that my father evidently recorded final messages in case of his death as a will of sorts, and you got one. Where is  _mine_? Why haven’t I seen it yet?”

Jason is still angry. He won’t forgive Damian for this for a long time, maybe never. But right now his anger ebbs just enough for him to stop wanting to strangle the brat because— he’d never thought about that before. And he doesn’t know how to tell a ten-year-old boy that the father he idolizes probably didn’t record a message for him. That Bruce probably didn’t have anything to say to him.

“Where is it?” Damian asks louder, and Jason can see the growing worry in his eyes. He already suspects the same bitter truth as Jason. 

It is incredible how many times Bruce has managed to let down a kid he barely knew.

“I don’t know,” says Jason. “I don’t have it. I’ve never seen it. But—” He stops, swallows. Wonders if it is really worth it to give Damian any shred of false hope that’ll only let him down, again. “But if there is one, it’ll be at the Cave. There’s a hologram chamber he set up before he died. That’s where I heard mine.”

Damian’s eyebrows knit together and his mouth tightens in an expression of deep concentration. It’s a familiar expression to Jason, one that he’s seen a hundred times on someone else’s face, and he knows Damian is already plotting a way to break into there. He’s on his own for that mission—no way is Jason getting involved.

 

—

 

“I am going to my father’s manor tomorrow,” Damian tells Jason less than a week later. Kid works fast.

“Okay,” says Jason absentmindedly, tearing a thread in half with his teeth. He’s stitching up a rip in the arm of his uniform and only half-listening. He looks up suddenly as Damian’s words actually sink in. “Wait, what?”

“I accepted Grayson’s invitation for a meeting. I told him I wanted to learn more about my father by spending time where he worked.”

Dick has been sending messages for weeks offering to meet with Damian to talk about Bruce, and take him on a tour of Wayne Enterprises, and show him around the Batcave, and any other bribes he’s got to sway the kid over to his side. No strings attached, he always insists, but Damian is smart enough not to fall for that. Secretly, it gives Jason a small, glowing feeling of satisfaction every time Damian turns Dick down, every time he wins because of Damian choosing  _him_  over Dick.

Every time except for now. Even though Jason knows the kid is just playing Dick to get at the hologram chamber in the Batcave, it stings.

“Fine. Have fun. Just don’t expect them to let you play with any of the cool gadgets,” says Jason, stitching more aggressively as he tries to keep the resentment out of his voice. He pricks his thumb and sucks on it to stop the bleeding. “What time are you going to be back?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps before patrol.”

“Do you need a ride there or something?”

Damian shakes his head. “I am to meet him in a café near Wayne Tower. I can take the bus there myself.”

Jason blinks in surprise. Wow. He’s almost…  _proud_. Almost.

“ _But thanks for the offer, Jason_ ,” he mutters to himself in a high, posh voice as he stabs the needle viciously through the armoured fabric. “Yeah, no problem, Damian.”

Damian’s eyes narrow. “What?”

“Nothing.”

 

—

 

Damian shows up two hours before patrol on a Ducati with a Robin logo. Must have belonged to Jason’s replacement. He never had a ride that awesome.

“They tried to lock me in that cave,” Damian complains. “They thought they could tell me what to do. A mistake on their part.”

“You didn’t hurt Alfie or Dick, did you?” He only asks because— Okay, he would _never_  want Alfred to get hurt, ever. That’s just something that isn’t allowed to happen. And Dick is still in crutches. Hitting a guy in crutches is just low.

“No. I simply made it clear that they weren’t capable of containing me. Overriding the voice recognition system was child’s play. I’ve done it before.”

Jason isn’t as disappointed as he thought he’d be about the brat coming back. In fact, he’s kind of impressed that Damian managed to steal a motorbike, disable its tracking system, disarm the Batcave’s security and escape.

It’s not like he was worried about how much better with kids Dick is than him. How easily Dick might have charmed Damian into staying with him and living in a mansion or a penthouse or anywhere better than a cramped safehouse in a lousy part of town that smells like burnt rubber from the nearby tire factory whenever the wind shifts a certain way. He wasn’t worried about having nobody watching his back on patrol after he’d gotten used to it, or having nobody at home to talk to after he’d gotten used to that, too. Not for a second.

“Any message for you?” Jason asks.

Damian won’t look at him. “No.”

Fleetingly, Jason considers doing something supportive like putting his hand on Damian’s shoulder. But Damian is already turning away and he decides against it. “Sorry, squirt. Chances are it wouldn’t have said whatever you were hoping for, anyway.”

“I know,” Damian says as he walks down the hallway. He pauses there for a moment, rocking slightly on his feet like he’s conflicted, then says over his shoulder, “I… apologize. For watching yours without permission. That was wrong of me.”

And then he’s gone, closing his bedroom door behind him before Jason can do anything but stare after him, stunned. 

A wide grin slowly grows on Jason’s face, and then he is taken over by a fit of silent chuckles that leave his eyes tearing up and him clutching at a kitchen chair for support. An apology. Talia and Bruce’s son just apologized to him. The world must be ending.

 

—

 

The bike is no Batmobile, but it’s a sweet ride. They keep it.

 

—

 

“Are we there yet?” Damian asks for the fifth time. 

“No,” Jason says flatly. They’ve been walking for almost an hour and, to be honest, for the last little while Jason has been leading them through damp alleyways with no real direction. But he’s not going to admit that to Damian.

“Where are we looking for?”

“I’ll tell you when I see it.” The puddle Jason just stepped in was a lot deeper than he thought. Grimacing at the cold, slimy feeling in his socks, he slogs through. “I know you hate surprises. But just bear with me, okay squirt?”

Damian scowls. His socks can’t be too dry, either. “Well, will it take much longer?”

“Dunno. Depends.”

He can almost  _feel_  Damian’s eyes rolling behind his back.

Good. Damian deserves to be a little annoyed, a little miserable. It’s his fault they’re out here. He talks too much about Gotham as something belonging to him. His property. Like the millions of other people don’t matter. It irks Jason more and more every time because it’s  _wrong_  and Damian needs to  _learn_  that.

So he thought he’d bring Damian out here and teach him an impromptu lesson. Slim chance of actually getting through the brat’s thick, entitled head but it’s worth a shot.

Jason stops. The building in front of them is new, recently got torn down and built back up. Some kind of warehouse sitting in highly contested gang territory. Exactly what Jason’s searching for. 

“Are we there  _now_?” demands Damian as Jason surveys the blank brick wall critically.

“Yeah, think so.” Jason is relieved to say it—Damian is definitely verging on whiny and that’s never fun to deal with. “This’ll do.”

Kneeling down, Jason digs through his backpack. He pulls out a can of spray paint and tosses it at Damian, who catches it on reflex. 

 Jason nods at the wall facing them. A perfect canvas. “Go nuts.”

“Are we  _tagging_  now? How mundane.”

“Nah. Well…” He tilts his head and thinks about it, sticking his cold hands in his jean pockets. “No, not really. Just paint something. Anything you want. Words, pictures, a giant dick, doesn’t matter. But that last idea  _is_  a little mundane, I know. I’m trusting you to be more creative than that.”

Damian stares at Jason suspiciously, holding the can of paint away from him like he doesn’t trust it. But the pull of the blank, clean wall is too much to resist and it isn’t long before Damian starts spraying.

He gets the hang of it almost immediately. He’s got a steady hand and keen eyes and he doesn’t shy away from using as much of the wall as he can reach.

“You’re a natural,” Jason remarks.

“I’ve studied painting under several of the most renowned artists of our day. This pathetic subset of art requires no real skill.” 

As he is finishing that sentence his grip slips and he sprays a huge splotch over what was intended to be a line. His ears turn as red as the paint he’s using.

Jason half-expected bats and Robin symbols. Instead Damian paints stylized lettering; Arabic… Jason thinks. The meaning escapes him. He only knows a few words of the language. 

The kid has quite a creative streak. Jason figured as much, with all the times he’s seen Damian hunched over a sketchbook, but he has never been allowed to peek at any of the drawings. And Damian keeps that book very well-hidden.

“Cool,” comments Jason as Damian finally stops painting and takes a step back. “What does it mean?”

Damian tosses the empty paint can at him. “First you must tell me the purpose behind this.”

Jason pretends to think it over. “Nah.” He grins impudently and starts walking away. “Not today.”

“Now what?” asks Damian, scurrying to catch up.

Now Jason has to try and commit this place to memory, which might be tough because he’s not exactly sure he knows where they  _are_. But… he’ll probably be able to find it again with a little searching. Probably. He slaps Damian on the shoulder amiably.

“Now it’s lunchtime. C’mon, I know a good place that’s not far from here… I think.”

 

—

 

It starts with a few sniffs that Jason mistakes as Damian expressing displeasure with him as usual. He can’t think of anything he did to irritate the boy, though sometimes just his presence is enough to do that. But then by the end of the day Damian’s coughing and sneezing, his voice raspy.

Jason sneaks up behind Damian and places a hand on his forehead. The kid jerks away like he’s been struck and whirls around angrily. “What do you think you’re doing?” His voice is so hoarse it cracks in the middle.

“You’ve got a fever,” Jason says. “I should probably take you to a doctor, or your mom will get mad at me.” The last place he wants to be is on Talia’s bad side. But he has a feeling taking Damian to a doctor’s office will be like dragging an angry, snarling mutt to a vet. Except dogs probably bite less.

"I don’t get sick."

“Everyone gets sick. Except Superman, probably. And Wonder Woman. Talia didn’t stick any alien DNA into you, did she? ‘Cause I know you’re not part Amazon.”

“No. But I’m genetically superior to commoners like you, Todd. I’m not supposed to get sick.”

“So you’ve never gotten a cold before?”

He sneezes so hard he almost throws himself off his feet. “Not like this.”

“Then no wonder you’re so sick. Gotham’s a cesspool of germs—out-of-towners don’t stand a chance, ‘specially not ones that grew up spoiled and isolated on mountaintop temples, or wherever the hell Talia hid you for ten years. Your immune system must be getting its butt  _kicked_ —”

“I know how immunology works better than  _you_  do. I don’t need you to enlighten me.”

“Since you’re such a genius, I probably don’t have to tell you that the best cure for the cold you’ve got is rest. So go hop in bed. I’m not letting you on patrol until you stop coughing near me and stop making that  _noise_.”

Damian gives a wet, nasally sniff that sounds like a toad croaking. “What noise?”

They fight about it for nearly half an hour because the kid keeps stubbornly insisting that he is  _fine_ , that Jason can’t tell him what to do, that no disease could possibly get the best of him, but his arguments get less and less insistent, shakier and shakier, until he has to drag himself off to bed because he can barely stay standing.

Hours later Damian plods into the kitchen, still looking like death warmed over, drawn out of his room by the smell of Jason cooking. Jason drops a bowl down on the table in front of the kid before he can complain about being hungry.

“What’s this?”

“Chicken noodle soup. Dinner.” It’s just packaged stuff, nowhere near as Alfred’s soup, but it’s something—or maybe  _not_ , since Damian is already turning his nose up at it. 

Jason isn’t even sure why he tries, except… he remembers being sick a bunch of times as a kid and having to take care of himself because there was nobody else who could. It sucked.

Damian stirs the soup critically with his spoon. “This is nothing but over-salted, artificial chicken broth with little to no nutritional value.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s great,” Jason agrees cheerfully, just because he knows how much that tone annoys Damian. “It’s like magic for colds. And I added extra noodles, see? Eat up.”

Damian glares up at him with bleary, red-rimmed eyes and continues stirring the soup disinterestedly to make it seem like he’s doing something with it, like any other picky kid would do. Jason comes back later, after Damian’s crawled back to his bedroom, and finds the bowl—and the pot on the stove—completely empty.

 

—

 

Jason has cape trouble. With capes in general—his Robin cape was never exactly his best friend—but more specifically with the long, heavy, blanket of a cape he’s wearing as Batman, which he still hasn’t gotten used to like he expected. After his nth near-death experience due to the stupid thing getting caught and tangled and tripping him up he wonders why he even bothers.

While Damian is still sick and out of commission Jason tries going without the cape for a few nights, switching it for his old leather jacket. It’s such a relief, a literal weight lifted, that he can’t go back. The cape gets wadded up and thrown on the floor in the corner of Jason’s bedroom, where it stays until it disappears mysteriously a couple weeks later. He barely notices, and cares even less.

But without the cape the cowl just looks laughable. He misses his helmet. He never used to have to worry about getting gassed, or about punches to the face hurting, or about his lips getting chapped from swinging around in the wind all night and—  _fuck,_ the constantly dry and cracking lips are the actual worst, he forgot about how annoying that was back when he was Robin. Excuses and complaints pile up until Jason can’t deny that none of this was the right fit for him after all.

Damian suggests Jason paint the helmet black to resemble the cowl, but no way in hell Jason wants to run around town looking that much like Black Mask.

“We’re still Batman and Robin, right?” Damian asks one evening, chin resting on his arms crossed over the back of a chair, watching uncertainly as Jason clicks his helmet closed.

“Squirt, I could be fighting crime in a star-spangled bathing suit and calling myself Wonder Woman and we’d  _still_  be Batman and Robin.”

He hasn’t entirely given up on the uniform; he keeps the armoured bodysuit with the red Batsymbol. Because he’s stubborn, and because he knows it annoys Cassandra like nothing else. He enjoys the attention.

 

—

 

It is the ugliest cat Jason has ever seen.

His face is wide and squashed, one eye squinting and the other cloudy and discoloured. His dark grey fur is wiry and scraggly. There’s a singed bit of fur on the end of his tail and Jason can’t even begin to guess how that could’ve happened. 

He’s a sorry, sorry creature, but Damian is determined to keep him. Even the deep, oozing scratches the furry little monster left on his cheek aren’t enough to change his mind.

“All right,” Jason relents. “But you’re the one cleaning the litter box.”

 

—

 

Damian names the cat Jason. 

It doesn’t cause any confusion, since he only ever calls Jason ‘ _Todd’_. But sometimes Jason will watch Cat Jason hacking up a hairball in the kitchen, disgusted, and wonder if he should be insulted.

Or maybe the name is the brat’s way of showing fondness. He does seem affectionate toward Cat Jason, unbelievably. Even lets the mangy animal sleep on his bed.

Jason wonders.

 

—

 

Jason isn’t entirely sure how the night ends the way it does.

It starts out worse than usual. The city’s been more unstable since Bruce died, and it just seems to be getting worse and worse. Gang skirmishes break out almost daily, and the night in question it’s all they can do to prevent a  _war_.

And “they” isn’t just Jason and Damian—it’s the other dynamic duo, too. The four of them end up working together to put out dozens of fires, real and figurative. 

Weeks and months of antagonizing each other, interfering with each others works, and then suddenly they’re teaming up, just like that. Not that it’s perfect teamwork. Jason is irritated by how closely Cassandra watches him, like she is ready to wrest the gun out of his hand at any moment, and the two Robins can’t be in the same room without sniping at each other, but. Desperate times.

Jason  _really_  isn’t sure how the night ends the way it does. He remembers the sky lightening with the approaching dawn, and the hope that they’d managed to preserve some sort of tenuous peace for at least until the following night. He  _doesn’t_  remember falling off a rooftop and landing on his head but according to the others it does happen, and he wakes up on the sofa in his safehouse feeling like he was run over with a steamroller. The helmet saved his life but he has still got a killer headache.

The place smells like a waffle house, is the first thing he notices as he sits up with a groan. The second thing is that he and Damian aren’t the only ones here.

(Not that he should be surprised—the brat never makes him breakfast.)

He isn’t sure how the night ended this way. Safehouse compromised, rivals making waffles in his kitchen… This definitely wasn’t supposed to happen. He wishes it could all be a bad concussion dream, but it’s not.

“You’re lucky you have no broken bones,” Cassandra says. She is curled up in the armchair, sipping tea out of Jason’s favourite Wonder Woman mug.

“That’s me, Mr Lucky,” he mutters, gingerly touching the bruising on his shoulder. A plate of golden waffles is suddenly dropped on his lap. He turns his head to see Stephanie leaning over the back of the sofa. Her smile is bright and a little forced.

“I made breakfast, sorta…” she says. “Still a bit too early to be called that. More like a post-patrol, pre-breakfast snack.”

“You put frozen waffles into the toaster,” Damian scoffs from the kitchen. “You didn’t _make_  anything.”

Stephanie ignores him. “You have some really scary crap in your freezer,” she tells Jason.

“It’s work stuff,” he explains tiredly. “Thanks, I guess.” Thanks for serving him his own waffles. 

With the way his head is spinning, just looking at them makes him feel nauseous. So once she has walked away he places the plate down on the floor where he hopes he won’t step on it later. Curious, Cat Jason ambles over and licks at the syrup.

“Everything still calmed down out there?” Jason asks Cassandra, nodding at the window.

“Right now. Thank you, for your help tonight. Things could have gone… very badly.”

“Yeah, same,” he says grudgingly. Putting aside his pride for one night was better than watching the city burn. Maybe. “And for helping Damian drag my sorry butt back here.” 

But too bad that means their secret safehouse isn’t so secret anymore. Soon as he is feeling like a person again instead of a battered punching bag he’ll have to start hunting for a new place for him and Damian. 

As he is thinking that, Cassandra smiles and makes a lips-zipped gesture. Well. How about that.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says quietly. She nods, and he glances over at the Robins—but they’re too busy bickering over who should do the dishes to be listening in. “Do you really think you can replace him?”

“Batman, yes,” she answers without a moment of hesitation, without even stopping to think about it. “I will or… die trying.” She gives a wry little smile. Morbid humour. His favourite. Then her face falls. “But… not Bruce. So, no. Not exactly. What about you?”

“Wish I knew,” he says under his breath.

“Can I ask  _you_  a question?”

Jason shrugs. “I think you already did, but fine.”

“It’s been… weeks since you killed,” she says. That’s not the question. He could argue, say she  _doesn’t_  know what goes on every minute of his life like she thinks she does, but she is practically a human lie detector. If she didn’t know it was true before she said it, she knows after. “I want to know, why?”

“Maybe it’s because every time I try to shoot you end up standing in front of the gun,” he gripes, running a hand through his hair in frustration. She tilts her head inquisitively, waiting for more. “I don’t  _know_. Don’t read too much into it, It’s just the way things have panned out lately. I could wind up killing some slimeball tomorrow, if I run into one twisted enough to deserve it.”

It’s not a real answer, but she is smiling like she heard—or, knowing her,  _saw_ —exactly what she wanted, everything he didn’t say out loud. Her eyes drift over Jason’s head, to the kitchen where Damian and Stephanie’s bickering has erupted into Damian slashing in her direction with a large knife. 

“Everyone was worried,” she tells Jason. “But, I think… you two are  _good_  for each other.”

Jason turns around and shakes his head in shame at the scene. He yells, “Damian! Put down that butcher knife, I swear to  _god_. Get one of the steak knives from the drawer, you  _know_  you fight way better with smaller ones. Better yet, get two.”

  
—

 

Jason wakes up on the sofa again—must’ve dozed off. Which, if he does have a concussion like he thinks he might, the others probably shouldn’t have let happen. 

“Thanks a lot, Damian,” he mumbles sarcastically into the couch cushions. “Thanks—“

But he’s talking to an empty room. Everyone is gone. The girls must’ve headed home, and Damian has got to be in bed. It’s just him and the cat purring on his legs.

Cat Jason isn’t so bad after all, Jason decides, nodding off again. Now that Damian’s trained him—and given him a few baths—he’s downright cuddly.

 

—

 

Nothing really changes out in the field. They aren’t suddenly best friends with the other two vigilantes just because they all worked together once and shared waffles.

Jason does come across a slimeball deserving enough to break the mercy streak, but before he can pull the trigger to put a bullet into the bastard’s brain their drug bust gets busted by the  _other_  Batman and Robin.   

Jason gets out of there with a sprained knee and one arm numb from a nerve strike, but he gives the Brown girl a black eye in return and Damian impressively manages to nick Cassandra with a batarang, so it’s about even.

One night he and Damian find some kidnapped children before the other duo by utilizing interrogation techniques on a perp that are definitely not Bat-approved. The kids are saved, scum gets punished, and only a  _bit_  of blood is shed. 

The girls are pissed off at the two of them for days after that, picking more fights and keeping a closer eye on Jason and Damian to make sure it doesn’t happen again, when they should be  _thanking_  them. It would’ve been too late for those kids if they hadn’t done what they did. After all, it takes different strokes~

 

—

 

Over an hour spent wandering through alley after alley trying to retrace their path from weeks ago and Jason is beginning to worry they won’t be able to find that building again, the one with Damian’s graffiti. Soon they’ll have to call it a day—it’s just too miserably, bitterly  _cold_  to be outside much longer. Jason’s toes went numb ten blocks ago and his fingers aren’t far behind.

The only upside is that Damian stopped complaining about this ‘ _pointless, time-wasting errand_ ' a while ago because his teeth chatter uncontrollably if he opens his mouth. He’s keeping his jaw clenched stubbornly to hide it, which makes him blissfully quiet.

Jason feels bad for the shivering kid. They’ll have to stop for hot chocolate later.

When they do find the wall, it’s nearly unrecognizable. Damian’s graffiti—which, as Jason found a while ago by looking up a translation of the words from memory, isn’t as deep and meaningful as he’d thought.  _Son of the Bat_ , really? But then again, Damian is a ten-year-old—is almost completely painted over by layers of new tags.

Damian’s face is already red from the biting wind but it tinges that much redder as he stares in rage at his scribbled-out masterpiece, hidden under a warzone of clashing words and colours and symbols. Most of them gang, but not all.

“See what happens when you try to make your claim over part of the city, kiddo? A bunch of people are gonna notice and disagree, and they’ll take it back.” Jason waves a hand at the wall. It’s going to see more and more graffiti from gangs all vying to stake it out as their own. Then it’s going to get washed clean and everything will start over again. Or maybe the territory lines will shift and a new building be fought over. “You can own companies, and buildings—in fact, I think your dad  _does_  own this one—but never the entire city. You can’t act like you’re supreme emperor of Gotham and expect people to go along with that. Friendly warning: they’re gonna want to punch you in the face.”

“ _Tt._  I know how empires are created, Todd. I’ve read more history books than you.” Damian rolls his eyes like he’s embarrassed for Jason. “Obviously no one ever simply ‘goes along’ with it. There is resistance, bloodshed… But, what matter?”

Jason stares at him for a long moment, trying to process what just came out of the kid’s mouth. “That’s… not the point I was going for at all,” he says flatly, suppressing the urge to rip out his hair in frustration. “That’s as far as  _possible_  from the point I was trying to make.”

“I know. You dragged me out here to teach me some inane lesson—that you no doubt fooled yourself into believing very clever—about the self-expression of urban communities and the futility of the power struggle between the individual and the collective. I don’t care. These people,” Damian says, sneering at the graffiti, “clearly don’t know whose art they were defiling. Can we leave now? I have training to complete before patrol.”

Jason sighs, a white puff of mist in the frigid air. “Yeah, fine. It’s as cold as your sense of compassion out here. Let’s go.” Maybe it was too advanced a lesson for a kid who never even learned how to share. Back to basics.

 

—

 

Jason and Damian stop for lunch between a morning of tracking down parts for equipment repairs and an afternoon of doing legwork related to a case lead that still hasn’t panned out. Damian has finally gotten a taste for fast food, if only because Jason stubbornly took him to all the best diners and food carts he still remembers until Damian changed his tune.

But one thing Damian will never stop turning up his nose at are pickles, oddly, and today the cook made the grave mistake of leaving them on his burger.

Jason count his lucky stars that Damian doesn’t call over the waitress and make a scene. Instead he carefully removes them from his burger bun one-by-one and wraps them in his napkin while Jason sips his sofa and tries not to laugh around his straw at Damian acting so much like a kid, just like any other regular picky kid.

He notices Jason fighting not to laugh and, pursing his lips in disapproval, places the burger down and folds his hands primly on the tabletop.

“When I take my rightful place as supreme emperor of all Gotham,” he says, gravely serious, “my first decree will be to ban pickles from entering city limits.”

Then he chomps on a french fry and smirks, and Jason realizes that little brat—that little  _shit_ —is joking.  _Joking_.

Maybe his crappy, half-assed lesson got through after all.

 

—

 

Jason keeps noticing paint smudges on Damian’s hands. When he does laundry he finds splattered stains on some of Damian’s darker clothing—a myriad of neon colours matching the vivid graffiti that has been popping up in the strangest, highest places all over the city, and he thinks he created a monster.

 

—

 

Damian bugs Jason for  _ages_. Ages. And finally Jason relents and agrees to let Damian be Batman for a night.

It’s Jason’s Christmas present to the kid, since he’d be fucking impossible to buy for. Jason doesn’t even want to  _try_.

Damian is fully decked out in a redesigned Batman costume that he surely intended to be intimidating, but— It’s awfully cute. It must have been hanging half-finished in his closet for  _who knows_  how long—although probably since Jason’s abandoned Batman cape went mysteriously missing—because there is no way he whipped that together in a day. The spiked knuckles are a cool (and slightly troubling) touch.

And, of course, Batman needs a Robin.

The only concessions—the  _only_  concessions—Jason makes are an R-logo sewn onto his usual jacket and a domino mask instead of the helmet. That’s it. No pixie boots, no cape, and no scaly shorts. 

Jason would consider himself lucky that they don’t run into any other vigilantes that night… if only he didn’t know with a hundred percent certainty that the millions of cameras in the city under Barbara’s control are catching every minute. He knows she’s watching from somewhere behind a computer, laughing.

 

—

 

“Is it true?” demands Damian before he and Jason have even landed on the rooftop. “Is my father back from the dead?”

Someone must have warned Drake about the new boy wearing his colours and usurping his title, but a look of disgust flashes across his face as he sees it with his own eyes for the first time. Damian bristles and sneers right back. 

Jason feels Cassandra’s gaze on him, and an unspoken agreement is cemented to hold the Robins back if things get nasty. They aren’t here for a fight.

They’re here because of the news Tim brought back with him from his time spent abroad cozying up with the League of Assassins. News about Bruce.

“He was never dead,” says Tim. He’s wearing a patchwork combination of his Robin uniform and the cowled costume Jason wore the last time they butted heads. Still wearing his old logo and clinging to the name Robin, though Jason wonders how long that will last. He knows a bird ready to leave the nest when he sees one, though in Tim’s case it was more like the nest crumbled under him and he was forced to fly away.

“He’s just lost in the timestream. I’ve suspected it for… months, ever since he left, but I needed proof.” He raises his chin, a small victorious smile playing at his mouth. “And now we have it. He is alive.”

He talks about his proof, about cave paintings and portraits with Bruce’s scowl and hidden chambers under the manor, and all the while Jason bites his tongue to keep himself from screaming out  _bullshit_.

“Well?” Damian interrupts sharply once his patience has worn out, which doesn’t take all that long. “Where is he? When will I get to see my father?”

“We’re working with the Justice League to locate him.“ Tim says coolly. “We don’t need your help for it, some of us just thought you should know. It’s only a matter of time before we find him… pun slightly intended.”

Jason starts laughing. It’s all just too much. Too ridiculous. The time-travel, the so-called messages from the past, Drake’s earnest, unwavering  _belief_  in what he’s saying.

He laughs until his chest hurts, until he sounds like he’s been hit with a dose of Joker toxin and  Cassandra and Tim exchange slightly fearful expressions. He laughs until tears run down his face that no one else can see through his helmet.

 

—

 

Jason has known since the beginning that this arrangement isn’t permanent. He thought sooner or later Talia would decide Damian’s training in Gotham complete, that she would call and have Damian moved somewhere else to learn under a different tutor, and Jason would never see him again. 

He thought Dick would charm Damian over to his side once he got back on his feet, an inevitability that only grew closer and closer. Right up until the day Jason heard the news about Bruce, he worried about how soon it would be before he saw Dick back out on patrol, flipping his way through the city.

Learning that Bruce isn’t dead is a surprise, but the call he gets from Talia afterwards isn’t. He just didn’t expect how lonely he would feel.

 

—

 

"I have finished packing."

Damian is standing in the doorway of Jason’s bedroom, bag slung over his shoulder. He’s a light packer for such a spoiled brat. Jason knows he has his Robin uniform folded up in there, probably the most important thing he is taking with him—except for Cat Jason waiting in his pet carrier in the hallway.

Bruce never actually said whether he’d be allowing Damian to continue as Robin while living under his roof, but like hell a little thing like permission is going to stop that kid.

Giving up on rooting under his bed for his missing glove, Jason straightens up and brushes the dust off his sleeves. Damian looks around at the disarray, the strewn clothes and the half-full duffel bag on the bed, and turns to Jason with eyes full of burning accusation.

"You’re packing too. You’re  _leaving_.”

"I’m just moving to a new safehouse a few streets over. Better location. Good parking… I’ll keep this place as somewhere to crash, though.” Jason sniffs a t-shirt to check if it’s clean, then shrugs and shoves it into his bag. “Never good to stay in one place too long; gotta keep moving.”

Damian does something Jason has never seen him do—he fidgets, nervously glancing down at his feet. “If this doesn’t work out…”

Jason can’t let Damian finish that sentence, because he’ll have to say  _no_. They can’t go back to this. It is Talia’s decision for Damian to live with Bruce now that he has miraculously returned, and both of them know better than to go against Talia’s wishes.

"It’ll work out fine, Damian. You’ll see,” Jason says firmly. "I mean, you’ve spent most of your life wishing to know more about your dad, right? And now you’re getting exactly that, and you should— you should take it. He can be a jerk, and a hypocrite, and there are things I’ll never forgive him for, but you shouldn’t give a damn what I think. You deserve the chance to know your dad for yourself. If you’re worried—"

"I’m not  _worried_ ,” Damian insists with a distinctly worried little crinkle between his eyebrows. “I’m simply… uncertain. About whether I can still be Robin. What if I hate working with them? They’ll force me to fight by their rules, and I don’t want to. Their rules are idiotic. Enemies do not deserve mercy.”

“No offense, Damian, but it wouldn’t hurt you to go cold turkey on the killing for a while. Take a break, y’know.” Eventually he’s going to find out that the more he does it, the harder it gets. And,  _fuck_ , does it ever get hard at times. “You’re still young. You should be trying lots of different things. Maybe you’ll even end up liking their rules.” 

It’s for the best that Damian get some different role models, better ones than Jason. Ones that might be able to set him on a happier path.

Damian looks disgusted at the suggestion. “If that’s what you think, why don’t  _you_  be the one to take a break?” he snaps. It’s a fucking good question, one that makes Jason falter for a split second.

“Damian—“

”You’re only saying what you need to make me leave. You just want to be rid of me.”

"Yeah, you better believe it. You’ve been nothing but a thorn in my side since you showed up." He laughs. “Kidding,” he says, before Damian can take it seriously and get all broody.  “C’mere.” He gestures towards himself.

Damian takes a cautious step back instead. “Why?” He backs up more as Jason steps closer.

"Because I’m gonna—“ Jason lunges forwards, nearly tackling Damian, and grabs him in a hug that lifts the kid’s feet off the floor. “Ha.”

"Put me down,” Damian says through gritted teeth. “This  _instant_.”

Jason does, before Damian gets violent. But he’s sure that bluster is at least fifty percent faked. ”Fine,” he says as he sets Damian back down on the ground. Jason can’t resist tousling his hair roughly one more time before he leaves—there is just something so forlorn lingering in his scowl. He’s still worried. 

"Don’t worry ‘bout it so much, squirt. And don’t— don’t ever let them make you feel bad for making mistakes, or for not being the same as the Robins before.” It’s pretty much the only advice he has to give.

"Of course I’m not like any of you. I’m better."

Mid eye-roll, it hits Jason just how much he is gonna miss this kid. “Right. Well, if you ever need a break from them, you can always come find me. I know you’ll be able to, wherever I am. Doubt any security systems I come up with will be able to keep you out, anyway.”

Damian smirks as he picks up the cat carrier and the angrily meowing cat inside, ready to go. ”Look at that, Todd. You’re right about something for once.”

 

—

 

It takes Jason three tries to light his cigarette, it’s just too gusty on top of Wayne Tower. He is breaking his one-a-day rule—this is his second—but… this meeting is going to be the first time he has seen Bruce since before the man died, so he’s cutting himself a break this once. He needs it.

And he likes seeing the disapproving little twitch to Bruce’s frown when he finally shows up, ten minutes late. Must’ve gotten sidetracked with a mugging or something—Jason expected as much. 

Jason taps the ash from his cigarette and nods at Bruce. “You look good,” he says, determined to get the first word in. Keep this on his terms. “And I don’t just mean because you were dead. Glad you finally decided to show up.”

Jason took off his helmet to smoke and to feel the cool wind up here at the top of the world, and now he’s regretting it. It is harder to look Bruce in the eyes without it but he forces himself to anyway.

Bruce does look good; the same as ever, like he hasn’t been gone a day. But he was never actually dead, was he? Just “lost in time” or whatever flimsy explanation Drake came up with. Not like he was ever actually buried, or had to dig himself out with his bare hands…

“Jason—“

Jason cuts him off there. “I bet there’s lots of things you want to talk about, but it’s not going to happen.” Things like Jason’s short stint as Batman, the message Bruce recorded for him… Jason would sooner take a bullet than discuss any of that with Bruce. “I didn’t come here for that. I only came to talk about one thing and that’s Damian.”

It is silent except for Batman’s cape snapping from a sudden gust. Jason lets out a long breathe of smoke and watches it get snatched away by the wind as he waits for that stubborn old man to accept the terms. 

The graffiti he scribbled on the side of the tower a few months ago is still there, weathered a little by rain but still thick and clear to read. He wonders if Bruce has noticed, but that’s stupid—Bruce notices everything.

Bruce lets out a quiet breath, not quite a sigh. Finally. “All right. Talk.”

"You’ve got one fucked up kid, Bruce,” says Jason. "I mean Damian. The rest aren’t too well-adjusted either, but at least with him you’ve still got a chance of getting it right.” The butt of his cigarette gets dropped and ground out under his heel, and then he’s stalking forwards, advancing on Bruce threateningly and getting right in his face. “He won’t be let down like I was. I won’t let it happen. Anyone hurts Damian, and I’ll kill them—unless he takes them down with him. I’ll kill them even if you try to stand in my way.”

Bruce doesn’t flinch at the closeness of their faces or the heat of Jason’s glare. Jason can’t see past the cowl lenses, but he is sure the man doesn’t even blink. 

”That won’t be necessary,” Bruce says calmly.

Jason turns away. “It better not,” he spits out, bitter. “You better take good care of him, because if anything happens… I might kill you, too. I don’t know yet. But I might.”

"If you don’t, I’m sure Talia will.” 

It’s not a joke. Batman doesn’t joke.

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” says Jason. He reaches into his jacket for his grappling gun, striding to the edge of the roof. ”Good. Well, since we’re on the same page…”

A dark-gloved hand closes around his wrist. “Jason, wait.” 

Jason roughly shakes away Bruce’s grip. Considers throwing a punch, too, but he isn’t in the mood for a fight tonight. “Don’t touch me again.” And when Bruce opens his mouth to say something, Jason interrupts him sharply. “If it isn’t about Damian, I don’t want to hear it.”

“We’re giving him a trial run as Robin tomorrow night to see how he works in the field. It would be useful to have an extra pair of eyes keeping watch in case something goes wrong. Since you’re so worried—”

“He doesn’t need a trial run. He  _is_  Robin.” Jason thinks about it, and nods. “Yeah, I’ll help keep an eye on the brat. I’ve got a meeting with a snitch around one that I’ll have to duck out for, and I’m keeping my distance. I’m not agreeing to hang out with any of you.”

“Fine.”

Jason readies his grappling gun, about to shoot and swing, and… Stops. “Look, I said he was a fucked-up kid,” he tells Bruce, “and he  _is_ , in a lot of ways, but… he’s a good kid, too. You just got to give him a chance. Or two. Or ten. You’ll see.”

As Jason is turning away to leave for real this time, he swears he sees the flicker of a smile.


End file.
